Jack’s eyes squinted as they met the brilliant morning light, which had crept in through the corner of the window just past the uneven edge of their misshaped shade. An ultra-real dream, which had him excitedly standing before a podium and crowd of people who he did not recognize, was prevented from coming to its completion, if it were even meant to have one. The sun’s rays, blocked peculiarly in parts by snow covered branches outside their window, beamed through and painted a glowing one-toned, cloud-tinted Pollock on the edge of the beige wall across from their bed. He blinked hard and rolled over to his right, ducking beneath the cover of their flannel blanket, on top of which he had experienced such discomfort just seven hours prior. Warmth escaped past his face as it floated up, and cooler, baseboard accented air filled both its sudden void and his nostrils.
Realizing that he was awake, Jack’s left hand, as if possessed, began to follow a familiar path toward Masha’s pajama pants covered behind. His hand began its journey as he inhaled the faint scent of her citrus-infused shampoo, which helped to ease his awakening. Dropping further than expected, his hand landed on a warm spot atop their mattress. His head slid slightly on his silk pillowcase as his arm lifted again, stretching further before dropping once more. More bed, less warmth this time. His eyes reopened to spot crumpled covers next to him. He flipped over quickly and as the tempo of his racing heart began to beat in his ears, the pounding was accompanied by the faint sounds of running water, which ceased just as soon as he had heard them.
Moments later, Masha opened the hollow, white bathroom door, its gold painted handle generating a slight squeak as she did so. She turned off the bathroom light with her right hand, then closed the door behind her with her left. Heading toward the bed, the morning sun’s light set the tiny blonde hairs on her cheeks aglow as her body cast a shadow that re-enveloped the wall behind her in darkness. She spotted Jack with his eyes closed, but his appearance suggested he was too stiff to be asleep. She smirked as she made her way over top his body, making no effort to avoid gentle contact as she returned to her side of the bed. The remains of the warmth she had left behind felt soothing on her back as she sank in, then she rolled gently onto her toned, freckle speckled stomach.
Jack sensed the direction of her movement and his lonesome hand made its way under the covers toward its previously intended destination. Reopening his eyes, he peered to his right attempting to spot Masha’s reaction to his love tap. “Mmmm. Still there?” “Hmm, feels like it.” Jack whispered as he tapped and caressed her gently. “I remember his doing this the first time I slept over.” Masha thought. As the two eased into their awakening, reality set in and Jack felt a tension in his upper body. “Baby,” he started, “I’m sor—“ “Don’t apologize, today is new… for us also.” His neck and shoulders sunk into his pillow.
“Bacon and eggs?” Jack called minutes later from the kitchen. “French toast!” Masha countered with excitement. “Touché, touché! Still doing bacon though. Ok, I’ll get it started, you do the coffee.” “K-Cup ok?” “Woah, woah, lazy lady!” He shot back. “Haha!” She giggled, “Ok, fine, pot or Moka?” “Moka please, no dirty water! And Kimbo in it would be great.” “Dirty water?” She called back. “Hah, yeah, that’s what my barber from Rome used to call American coffee. What a character, Michelangelo. He told me once that he drove to the Florida Keys every year and would only stop to use the bathroom and have a snack. He said he would have no caffeine during the trip because all the rest stops had no espresso, only dirty water as he called it. American coffee.” “Sounds crazy!” “Yeah, but in a fun way. You studied in Sicily; you understand his passion.”
Masha arrived in their kitchenette, having glided along as she crossed the faded blue carpet that surrounded the two open sides of the six-foot-long patch of patterned beige linoleum flooring. The linoleum area served as an easy to clean surface for the kitchen and refrigerator section of their apartment. “Where is your machine?” “Is it technically a machine?” “Stop teasing me.” “No seriously, I wonder if it counts as one if it has no power.” He replied as he handed her the three aluminum pieces that made up his beloved stovetop espresso maker. “Something does not require power to be a machine, silly. Think Rube Goldberg.” “Ah, good point. I guess you can have a machine without power. A dumb question, and it won’t be my last today!”
Next, Jack stirred four eggs, a splash of milk, and a few shakes of cinnamon powder together in a wide white bowl that sat atop their blue-grey laminate countertop. Masha filled the Moka’s base with cool water, then inserted the metal filter, which she filled with Kimbo ground espresso that she had pulled from the fridge. She was so precise that only a ground or two spilled off the mound of coffee she piled into the filter. The filter full, she twisted on the top, sealing the contents within, and then carefully carried the completed contraption to their stovetop. She fired up the smaller back left burner and set the Moka Express atop it to begin heating.
It was a process that required patience, one sure to frustrate a coffee dilettante or a caffeine addict in need of a fix, but the resulting brew was eminently worth the wait for the willing and able.
On a large non-stick frying pan, Jack melted Irish butter and it began to blend with the olive oil he had poured into it after placing it on the large front right burner of the stove, diagonal to the Moka pot. While the cooking surface heated, he began the process of laying the whole wheat bread, slice by slice, into his egg-milk-cinnamon mixture. He pressed each piece gently and let it absorb and rise before carefully flipping with a fork and repeating this process on the remaining dry side of each piece until there was just a little bit of the liquid mixture remaining at the bottom of the bowl. With the savory smell of the oil and butter filling their kitchenette, Jack lightly plopped the soaked bread slices one by one into the pan, which sizzled and popped slightly as its butter-oil mixture met the soon to be congealed wetness of each piece.
“It’s bubbling!” Masha called out. Jack moved out of the way to let her by. As she brought the pot across the counter and began to pour, she pressed the lid closed using the black knob at the Moka’s top. As she poured, escaped steam kissed her thin wrist and the reminder to ‘Smile’ painted in white at the bottom of her purple mug was hidden for the time being by the dark brown liquid that emitted such an invigorating smell. Jack's blue mug was then filled, and a smile broke out on both their faces. “Milk?” “Yes please, whole milk, just a little.” “Ok, for me the same. Almost ready, sir.” “Thanks baby, I’ll watch this.”
Reclaiming his place at the stove, Jack could see the floppiness of the wet bread beginning to disappear and he breathed deep the smell of cooked egg, butter, and cinnamon that was rising from beneath his nose.
“How ‘bout that?” He asked with pride following a successful wrist-flick flip of two of the pieces (a spatula would help turn the other two that slid across the pan but did not flip). “Mind grabbing plates?” “Sure, one sec.” She swallowed one more sip, then put her mug down. The clinking of the plates on the counter told Jack that the French toast was safe to be taken
off as soon as it was done cooking. He slipped the spatula under the piece on the front right of the pan and peeked underneath as if checking his hand at a high stakes card game. “One minute, I figure.” “Woohoo!” “Oh whoops, I just realized I forgot the bacon! Whatever, no Sunday bacon, but this will be more than enough.” “Yep, yep, it will be plenty.”
“Ok, plate number one please.” Plop, plop. “Aaaand number two.” Plop, plop. “Ok, time to hit these puppies with some butter and syrup.” “I’ll grab from the fridge.” “Thanks, grab me the real kind please, the syrup I mean.” Jack cut two thin slices off their block of Irish butter and slid them between Masha’s French toast pieces, then slapped a third on top. His knife now warm, Jack turned his attention toward repeating this task on his plate, albeit with a bit more butter. “I’ll do my own syrup.” He advised, as Masha began to pour her non-maple syrup over her toast.
“I’m glad I cleaned and cleared the table yesterday.” Masha said as she carried her plate, mug, and a fork to the table. “Oh yeah, makes life easier when breakfast comes around.” “Mm, some of your best yet!” Masha exclaimed after her first bite. It was not a comment to which she gave deep thought, but it was nonetheless spoken sincerely in the moment. “Aw, thanks baby, not exactly the hardest to make or easiest to screw up, but I’ll take a win when I can.” He replied with a wink that met the loving gaze cast from her beautiful blues eyes.
Their intent focus on coffee and breakfast had initially distracted them from the glimmering fresh snow that sat atop the sidewalks and grass outside. The brightness was a welcome addition to their morning, and its warmth provided a beautiful contrast to the frigid cold they felt coming through the thin glass window next to their kitchen table.
Their morning was simple, no different than many past peaceful Sundays. It was perhaps even less eventful than usual, but Jack felt such comfort in the normalcy, considering where their relationship stood the night before. They could both feel the unmistakable calm of stability that was present in the atmosphere. The same could not be said of the environment in the neighboring apartment where Amy, Rene and Audrey continued to sleep off the exhaustion of their vicious quarrel. “Ah, I forgot to shut our door, it will smell like French toast for a while.” Masha realized aloud as she craned her neck to view their bedroom’s entrance. “Ah, no worries, not the worst smell.” “Hah, yes, it could be far worse.”
Just as they came to that realization, the rich aromas of brewed espresso and bread cooked in butter and oil passed through the air vent above their bed and fell over Rene who remained curled on the couch. The scent entering his nostrils caused his brain to begin exiting sleep and he slowly eased back into consciousness with each inhalation. He was technically rested, but unprepared to face the cruel new reality his fight with Amy had brought on the night before. As soon as Rene had fully awakened, he began to hear the convulsive morning cries of Audrey next door. He knew it was time to arise and meet the day.
Chapters 1-8 of Masha are available for Purchase on Amazon
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